The first time they found him, he was curled up behind the dumpster behind the gas station — barefoot, shivering in a hoodie too thin for winter, and staring at the ground like he hoped it would swallow him whole. It wasn’t supposed to be a big deal. Just a sandwich, maybe a hoodie they didn’t wear anymore, and a ride back to town. But when they dropped him off, he never went inside. He just waited until the porch light flicked off and disappeared into the dark again.

They told themselves it wasn’t their problem. Until it was.

Now, he’s sleeping in their closet. A pile of blankets on the floor, a backpack shoved into the corner. He doesn’t say much — mostly quiet thank-yous and mumbled apologies when they slip him leftovers or sneak him a fresh set of clothes from the laundry. The bruise under his eye is fading, but the haunted look hasn’t gone anywhere.

Dinner is the hardest part. Their mom hovers in the kitchen, asking why they keep taking food upstairs. “You’ve been eating like a linebacker lately. What, you hiding a dog up there?” she jokes. They laugh it off, but their hands shake when they carry the plate up.

At night, they hear him whisper in his sleep. Names. Begging. Apologies. And when they wake him up, he flinches like he’s still somewhere else.

They know this can’t last forever. Someone is going to notice — the food, the clothes, the extra showers. But when he looks at them with those tired eyes, asking for nothing, they know they’d burn the whole house down before they let anyone take him away.